


shut your eyes, kiss me goodbye

by trespresh



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Dreams, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7143008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/pseuds/trespresh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His dreams are redundant—so familiar most nights that he doesn’t bother remembering them when he wakes up. Most nights. But tonight—oh man, <i>tonight</i>. He won’t forget this shit for the rest of his life, however long that might be.</p><p>(Frank dreams, and it's the most peace he's had in months.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	shut your eyes, kiss me goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written for this fandom/show, and Frank Castle just won't leave me alone, the poor, violent darling. I tried to figure out who I ship him with, but it turns out I only ship him with his own angst. Yikes.
> 
> Sleep by My Chemical Romance is the most Frank Castle song I've ever heard in my life. It's also where the inspiration and title for this come from. Mistakes are mine as this isn't beta'd.

Most nights.

Most nights he dreams of gun metal in his palm, lifeless yet powerful, cold as shit on his skin even against the hot, hot heat of the desert sun. Meticulous repetition: click the mag free, disassemble, clean, reassemble. Metallic _click click clicks_. And that sand—the goddamn desert sand that burns hotter than the hellish sun beating down; the sand that finds its way into his boots, scratches down his back and builds up behind his ears. It’s everywhere, far as the eye can see and deep under his fingernails.

His dreams are redundant—so familiar most nights that he doesn’t bother remembering them when he wakes up.

Most nights. But tonight—oh man, _tonight_. He won’t forget this shit for the rest of his life, however long that might be.

She comes to him almost immediately after he falls asleep. She’s on a dirty rooftop, this weird glowing aura around her, her blonde hair light like a halo. She’s barefoot, and in his dream, he smiles. She always loved being barefoot. Frank hates it, himself—got caught on the desert sand one too many times without his boots on, knows what it feels like to have your feet sizzle with nowhere to find refuge.

She smiles at him as he comes closer and he feels weightless, stares at her.

She’s more beautiful than the last time he saw her, smiling carefree and happy as the carousel whisked the four of them around and around. Before some motherfucker’s bullet ripped half her face off.

But she’s whole now, and as he reaches her, her hand lifts. He leans in eagerly, her hand cupping his jaw, his bruised, bloody, swollen jaw. He presses his face tighter into her delicate palm, too afraid to squeeze his eyes shut because he doesn’t want to—can’t bring himself to—look away from her face for even a blink. He stays there, devouring every inch of her face, the pretty blue eyes that look at him so sadly, nostalgically, like she can’t look at him hard enough, either. Such a bittersweet tilt to her mouth. He leans into her touch more, focuses like if he tries hard enough, he might actually feel it.

“Frank.”

The noise he lets out isn’t quite a sob but it’s wet and heavy like one, and he wants to fall into her, collapse against her and let her hold him like she used to when he was bony-weary, tired, just so _tired_.

“Frank, what’re you doing?” Her voice is quiet, melodic, _Christ_ he shivers with how good it feels to hear it again.

He stares at her and doesn’t have to ask what she’s talking about, knows already because he can see the reflection of his machine guns firing, firing, firing, inside her eyes.

“They took you from me, baby,” is how he explains. His voice is weak, throat too tight and mouth too dry.

She smiles sadly. “This isn’t you, Frank.”

He looks down and immediately regrets it when a deep, gnawing fear constricts his chest that when he looks up, she might not be there anymore, taken away from him in the blink of an eye. Again.

When he looks up again, she’s still there, and he wants to cry.

“You’re gone, baby, you’re all gone and I can’t think of anything but the lunch you made before we went to the park that day. Do you remember? And Lisa’s book,” he smiles, a wet, desperate laugh bubbling up, “you remember Lisa’s favorite book? And fucking Christ, I should’ve played catch with Junior one more time, I should’ve—” he heaves a shaky breath and stares at her through the welling tears. “I should’ve saved you guys. I should’ve—I should’ve—”

Her smile is sad, her eyebrows tilted and she watches him, lets him explain, lets him fold in on himself and _ache_.

“I don’t care if they call me a madman or, or a savior, or any shit like that. I’m doing what I have to, baby, I’m so full of—” _rage, loathing, longing, hatred, misery, fire, fire, fire_ —he sighs. “I miss you so much. And the kids, _fuck_ , I miss you guys,” he says after a minute. “I don’t feel bad about killing any of the bastards that did this to us. I don’t. Not for a second.”

She smiles again, a harsh reminder that this is a dream because no way would she really be happy to hear him say this shit. She was too good, too sweet and pure to ever want this for him. But he soaks in her smile anyway, in the glowing light of her skin and the accepting, caring look she gives him.

“Frank, darling, you’re almost done,” she says, and she fades before his eyes, just a bit, her glow dimming a fraction. A wave of terror rips through him because she’s leaving, so he grips at her wrist, presses her hand against his own cheek, blinks furiously through his tears so he can memorize her face for at least the millionth time. “We’ll be waiting when you’re ready. I promise.”

“Don’t leave me.” His voice is small, pleading, but he doesn’t fucking care, not now, he’s willing to drop to his knees and beg if it’ll make her stay with him for just a little while longer.

“You’re almost done,” she repeats, fading even more. “Just sleep, baby. Sleep.”

“No—!”

+

He wakes up with real, hot tears on his cheeks and his hand curled, knuckles white, around the M1911 he keeps under his pillow.


End file.
